


The Hollow Man

by HHarris



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Chair Story, Emotional, Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, Introspection, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining Sherlock, Post-Reichenbach, Sad Sherlock, Sherlock Feels, Unrequited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2014-05-05
Packaged: 2018-01-21 23:09:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1567391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HHarris/pseuds/HHarris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Still reeling from the apparent loss of his one and only friend, Sherlock returns to 221B for the first time after the events of The Reichenbach Fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hollow Man

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, but it has been a rather long day.” Sherlock stood at attention on the threshold, gazing stonily at the door to his abandoned flat. “I understand dear, you rest up. I’ll bring some breakfast in the morning.”

Mrs. Hudson’s voice sang with laughter as she turned to go. “Had to chuck all the food, you know — not that there was much, anyway!” Sherlock forced a smile against Mrs. Hudson’s beaming face. “I just can’t believe it,” she chirped from the landing, “It’s just like old times!” 

“Just like,” Sherlock mumbled as he cracked the door’s seal and entered 221B for the first time in years.

Alone at last, Sherlock shut the door and sagged against its frame. His nose alerting to the stale air, heavy with the scent of moldering books and sunbleached fabric. _Home, sweet home._  Sherlock grimaced as he sucked in the thick air with effort, forcing it down into his bruised lungs.

Mrs. Hudson’s footsteps stilled, and Sherlock allowed his eyes to open. He surveyed the decaying room, lit by a single, harsh light pouring in from Baker Street. In the cold glow, 221B appeared more like a mausoleum than the cozy flat he once shared with John. His friend, John.

 _John_.

His gaze lingered on the piles of dusty books, yellowing papers, and forgotten teacups strewn across the ghostly flat. Nothing was out of place. “Well,” he whispered, turning to John’s empty chair, “almost nothing.”

Sherlock set his jaw and loosened his scarf from his aching neck. He crossed the room in measured steps, muscles whining from abuse. The events of the night and his still-fresh Serbian wounds left him exhausted, raw. Sherlock felt beaten in every sense of the word. 

Two years of ducking through sewers, mingling with criminals, and enduring savage abuse. Two years spent with the singular goal of ensuring John’s safety. The safety of his only friend. Sherlock was so eager to see him again; he couldn’t imagine that John would feel any differently. 

But John was so angry, so hurt, and Sherlock had never felt so sick. Mycroft was right as usual — John had got on with his life. He had forgotten their friendship. But how could this be so?

Not a day had passed in the 741 days they'd been apart that Sherlock hadn’t thought of John or wished they were back in London together. _741 days._ Sherlock knew the figure in his heart. He had counted every one. Each day spent apart cut like a knife. But this pain, this rejection, wasn't a blow — it was a cancer. And at this moment, Sherlock was certain it would destroy him.

He sank into his old chair, its leather stiff and cracked from disuse. He stared blankly at John’s seat, faded and well worn, though obviously empty. Empty for years.

Sherlock rocked forward and caught his head in his hands. He massaged his eyes, his temples with shaking hands. He tried to stop the breath from catching in his throat. He was tired. He didn’t want to think. For the first time he _didn’t want to think_.

Two years spent exorcising James Moriarty’s ghost, and more criminals just rose to fill the void. _Stupid_. He could spend a lifetime defeating one villain after another, dismantling terrorist cells and crime syndicates — but if he didn’t have John, what would it have all been _for_? What was the point if he was to be alone? Why did he care so much? And worst of all, why couldn't he let John know?

Sherlock dragged his seat forward until the distance between the two chairs disappeared. He curled his slim frame onto both chairs and clung to the lumpy union jack pillow. Covering himself with John’s rough, green blanket, Sherlock shut his wet eyes against his empty flat, welcoming blackness.


End file.
